He has only a few more targets to go. I’m getting desperate, and my testosterone-fueled brain reaches for the dumbest fucking thing I could possibly say.
“I don’t want you on the team.”
Well, fuck. That fell right out of my mouth.
Rafi’s smile retreats behind a mask I’ve never seen him wear, and he hunkers down back into position, taking down the next three successively longer targets. I shove the binoculars up to my eyes so as not to miss a thing. The bullseyes are harder to come by, and now that he’s in a rhythm, he’s making calculations in his head like it’s easy. He’s a machine, precisely correcting for the shitty scope, bringing his shots closer and closer to perfect each time.
“Rafi?”
No answer.
He takes down the rest of the targets, and that’s when I realize the wind has been rifling through my hair this entire time. He hit his targets in a crosswind, and I can’t even begin to imagine how he compensated for that. Twelve hundredyards. That’s longer than all but a handful of sniper kills.
While I am still drop-jawed about what I’ve just witnessed, he stands up and wipes himself down, then racks his gun and sits in the weird little utility truck waiting silently.
Yeah, this one’s on me.
26
Rafi
“I don’t want you on the team.”
Those words echo in my head. Everett tried to get my attention, but I didn’t want to talk about it on the range, and I don’t want to talk about it in the truck. If I start talking about it, I’ll start crying, and I don’t want to acknowledge how much he hurt my feelings.
He’s seen Grief Rafi for six months and that’s all he knows about me, but I am so much more than my grief, and I have thisdreadbubbling up in my stomach that losing my husband somehow meant losing some essential part of myself, too. I hold back my frustrated tears until we get to the house. He goes to follow me, but I hold up my hand, unable to even look at him. He retreats to the den, and I make a beeline for the room.
Crawling over the king bed, I flop face-first into the pillows.
It’s okay to cry, habibi.
“Rafi?” Parker asks quietly, tapping on the door.
I guess the breakdown is going to be televised; I can’t get away from my dead husband or my eager friend. “Come in.”
“What happened out there? Y’all were all hot and heavy this morning, and now you’re facedown in the pillows. Do I need to kick someone’s ass?”
I grab a spare pillow and throw it blindly.
“Hey! I’m trying to be supportive here!”
I sniffle and flop over, wiping my eyes. “I know. I just want to be emotional by myself sometimes.”
She sits on the side of the bed, patting my arm. “I can leave you alone, but can you tell me why you’re emotional right now?”
I sigh and shake my head, more tears leaking. “I’m just so tired of beingthis,” I say, gesturing at my stupid tears. “I’m tired of people making decisions around me based on the fact that I’m this grieving widow in this emotionally unstable point in my life, rather than the man I used to be.”
“Tell me about him.” Her request is uncharacteristically soft, and that almost makes me cry harder.
“The Air Force didn’t just want me for language. Because I’m so small and don’t have claustrophobia or a fear of heights, they could put me anywhere, and often did. I can’t tell you the number of times I was in a room, hidden, always two seconds away from being discovered. I was the bug the enemy couldn’t scan for, and I helped take down a lot of really bad people because I have—well,had—nerves of steel. Now I’ve got the nerves of a gummy bear, and people think they can’t rely on me.”
She sits quietly, letting the emotions swell and pass. Looking thoughtful, she asks, “Is this what you were talking about this morning? Do you really want to be part of this team?”
I’m a red-eyed, crazy-haired mess, but to her credit, she doesn’t act as if I’m dumb for wanting it.
“Yes.” My voice cracks and more tears flood my face.
Yep, really making a good case for myself here. After a few more moments, I turn to her and ask, “Tell me the truth—am I completely ridiculous for wanting this?”
